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Mydeimos senses Phainon before he even hears him.
It’s night, or at least it’s supposed to be. The Curtain-Fall Hour has finished settling, even though the dawn still shines, bright and unrelenting. Mydei’s quarters are shielded from the light by red, thick opaque curtains fulfilling a wish for some quiet and intimacy for once that he’s allowed some much-needed rest. Putting down his half-consumed glass of pomegranate juice on the bedside table, Mydeimos looks toward the entrance. The Alpha’s scent sneaks into his bedchambers uninvited, like a slithering snake waiting to strike.
It’s a scent he’s used to.
Rich, cool and warm and just like summer; like walking through endless fields of golden wheat; like a kiss that’s spoken rather than given. Tonight however, it’s stronger than usual, fiercer, seeping through the gaps and the tiny holes in the walls until it finds him and wraps around his body like brand-new, possessive war paint. It induces him into a half-sit and then to a stand, its warring aroma a needy call Mydei chooses to heed. His heartbeat quickens as his territory is brazenly profaned, his own scent surging to contest Phainon’s. Blood pulses between his temples, hard and loud, making it hard to think of anything else but to punish the intruder.
His hand clutches at the crimson bedsheets but the linen fails to quell his bloodthirst.
He only lets go when sharp claws revert into blunt nails. It’s fine, he convinces himself, deafening his roaring instincts to a muted clamor, like he’s muzzling a rabid beast. It’s fine. It’s just Phainon.
Phainon, who seems absurdly keen on disregarding that this is Mydei’s domain.
“Puppy behavior,” he mumbles as he walks to the front door, flexing his fists open and closed. His body is itching to fight, to protect what’s his from the other Alpha, as if unaware he spent more than a year now at Phainon’s side—as if his scent was nothing if not horribly familiar. Still. He scrunches his nose, his hand stopping just short of the door. It really is too strong.
“Mydei,” Phainon calls through the white slab of stone.
His voice is ragged, breathy, and struggling; too low, dulled by how loud his pheromones are, screaming in his stead that he wants, that he needs. Mydei inhales sharply, forcing himself to get used to their intensity, and he opens the door to greet his companion with a scowl.
“Deliverer.”
Phainon’s eyes snap up to his, their ungodly unblinking blue clouded by a fever, his skin covered in cold sweat, and a noticeable bulge tenting his pants. He freezes upon seeing his arch-rival, his scent growing even stronger.
“You reek,” Mydei says. “Keep it down.”
“I can’t.”
Through his irises roam both a plea and a threat, and he sounds desperate and a bit resentful as well, obviously thinking it’s unfair of Mydeimos to ask. Mydei crosses his arms, taking in the state of the man he’s long decided to trust his life with, and he tries to disregard the satisfaction surging upon realizing Phainon’s mask has finally shattered. Not even the shadow of a smile remains on these usually oh-so charming lips, and his boyish bravery has gone from his shoulders, leaving them slumping like two heavy weights on a scale at the side of his head.
“We’re in public, Deliverer.”
And he knows Phainon wants nothing more but to seek refuge in the privacy of his home, away from the Okhemans citizens’ prying eyes, but Mydei won’t grant him this authorization, not yet. First, he wants to drill into him that he’s lost, and before the fight’s even begun, at that. They’re friends, and they’re comrades—but they’re rivals first of all, and Mydei will never pass up an opportunity to remind Phainon of the bitter taste of defeat. To hammer it into him that he was defeated by nothing else but his own self and the time he’s spent pretending to be someone he wasn’t. That he was brought to his knees by nothing more but his own, raging, caged for too long instincts, now too destructive to be withstood by any regular Omega, or by anyone—save for perhaps Mydei himself.
What’s a hero to a God, Mydeimos thinks, taking in Phainon’s bared fangs, his dilated pupils, his patchy breaths; the Alpha having found nothing less acceptable to try and knot into than the wielder of Strife itself. Mydei can handle him just fine. Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, he savors the words, turning them into petty pittance for his ego.
“I can’t,” Phainon growls, pheromones growing stronger.
An uncontrolled shiver runs through Mydei’s body, mirroring the thrill of their every fight. His brain reels back to let the adrenaline take control, and with Phainon in such a weakened state, all he can think of is to dominate. To prove he’s the better Alpha; to rewrite Phainon’s scent with his-
He clenches his hand once more, rousing a droplet of blood from his palm. With Phainon entering his rut, then at least one of them has to remain clear-headed.
“What do you need from me?” he asks with a raised brow, despite already knowing the answer.
A frustrated noise leaves the back of Phainon’s throat, a groan and a whine both. Needy and raw, Alpha instincts unable to be restrained. A translucent bead of sweat trickles down his forehead, and Mydei wants to lick it, and to bite and tear off a chunk of his head, too, to see blood and tears flow just like when they’re sparring, to straddle Phainon’s lap and hold him down-
“Mydeimos.” Urgency swells in Phainon’s voice alongside dangerous, useless pride, and Phainon takes a step closer so their forehead almost touches, so Mydei can hear him even if his voice drops to a most quiet whisper.
Mydei crosses his arms, leaning into the doorway. Deliberately tilting his neck and presenting in a taunt, letting his own pheromones drift and turn into something less threatening, more tantalizing. Promises of rewards in the shape of his calloused hand around Phainon’s knot, if he just so behaves and recognizes Mydeimos’ superiority. Phainon’s laugh is a little delirious, his eyes are trained on the exposed patch of skin he’s provoked with.
“Puppy,” Mydei calls, and Phainon’s eyes snap back to his again, gorged with rare, unseen hunger—and something else. Want. Lust. He's a parched man and all he’s offered to slake the thirst is burning, red, salted ocean water. Mydei smirks. “Ask for it.”
Phainon takes a step closer, his scent once again invading Mydei’s space. Summer and free skies, and Mydei is trapped in the ones reflected within his eyes. “Help me,” Phainon rasps, one hand hovering Mydei’s hip and the other flat against the door, keeping it open. Unflinching. Wild and a little broken, and only for Mydeimos to see. “Mydeimos.” Pronouncing his name the same way he’d usually say please, except tonight he won’t say it, not here, not now, not anymore, and Mydei can either waste strength trying to rip the words out of his throat or he can force Phainon into submission until there’s no other choice left for him but to remember how to beg properly.
So he grins, eyes narrowing in sweet, sweet victory—and he lets Phainon in.
Phainon closes the door behind them with less force than he uses to slam Mydei against the adjacent wall. Crowding him, his hardening cock pressing insistently against Mydei’s, fat and hot, his nose nuzzling into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. “Mydei,” he groans, fangs bared and teeth dipping into Mydei’s skin. “Alpha.” Disapproving, because Mydeimos is not backing down, his pheromones territorial and unyielding.
“Deliverer-” the tinge of mockery coating his voice is stripped away when Phainon ruthlessly humps against his leg. His thigh is used as nothing but something meaty for Phainon to fuck into, the Deliverer’s lips parted on relieved moans he confides against Mydei’s collarbone, his breath warm and staggered, his hands holding Mydei’s waist flushed against his. Can’t you wait, Mydei wants to say, but he’s hard too, his own cock bumping against Phainon’s hip, the heat between intoxicating. Still, he manages to unstrap the hooks of Phainon’s shoulder pads by some miracle, and he slides his coat off him despite the other man’s perseverance in doing this—whatever this ends up being—in the entrance, out of all places.
“-The bed is right there,” Mydei manages, voice thick.
Phainon hums dismissively, tongue lapping right above Mydei’s scent gland. He shudders, and he wraps one hand around the other Alpha’s throat with the other gripping at soft, messy strands of silver hair, and he keeps Phainon still, his mouth just inches away from being able to continue assaulting the sensitive spot. “Bed. Now,” Mydei insists.
Phainon’s nostrils flare, and his chest quivers with the heavy breaths keeping his lips parted. His gaze is hungry and lost, traveling from Mydei’s neck to his collarbone, to his mouth, to his eyes, and when Phainon speaks his voice is low and shaky like it’s unable to contain all of him anymore and some will spill out: “Hurry up.”
Mydei scoffs, but still he drags Phainon to his bedchamber, his fingers a leash hooking beneath Phainon’s collar as he pulls. He can only take a few steps before he’s pushed on top of the velvet bed sheets, barely having the time to turn on his back to face Phainon, and already needy fangs probe at his neck, taking nibbles of flesh and menacing to draw blood.
“Mydeimos,” Phainon pants, and it’s probably the only word he can safely say properly anymore, his tongue scalding and heavy on Mydei’s skin, his breaths each accompanied by a low-pitched demanding noise. “Mydeimos.”
Phainon’s hands are everywhere; slipping past his waistline, struggling to unbuckle the belt he’s helped remove a thousand times, knuckles knocking on the leather and getting lost in the chiton instead. Phainon scratches in frustration when he fails, leaving red chain-shaped digs in Mydei’s hips before he tries again, still thrusting against Mydei’s legs, his erection looking painful, caged in his pants like a growing beast. “Fuck-”
“Come here.”
Mydei pulls on the choker again, tearing Phainon’s mouth away to aim it at his own instead, their teeth clashing against each other and their tongues turning into a hot, messy blend of saliva that trickles down his chin and has him grow light-headed. Phainon’s hand, having surrendered in undressing Mydeimos, lays flat over his stomach and traces idle shapes over his abs and belly button, palm burning with possessiveness; and the other hooks below his knee and angles it so Phainon can rut against his leg better.
He’s cute, Mydeimos surprises himself thinking: Phainon’s cheeks are colored as if a painter had spilled his red bucket over an empty canvas, and he’s kissing a slew of needy moans against his lips, hips thrusting without rhythm, struggling to even speak properly.
With each passing second his eyes grow more unfocused, his sense of reason vanishing until all he can say is Mydei’s name, begging—praying, and Mydei thinks, a little delirious and power-drunk, same as when he ascended to godhood, that in all of Okhema, no one but him can handle Phainon.
To have the mighty Deliverer losing his sanity over not the sweet scent of a willing Omega but his own prideful and fierce pheromones is making his head swim, his cock twitch, his instinct scream in delight. It’s their usual rivalry and competitiveness, except increased a hundredfold, and all he wants right now is to hear more of Phainon’s aching whines and to find out how much more flushed he can get, thrilled by the understanding that he’s the only one who will ever know.
Phainon’s conflicted gaze is a treat: eyes half-lidded and glossy yet eyebrows furrowed, his throat bobbing every time he swallows—and he swallows often, trying to keep the animalistic urges down his throat. His crotch is damp as if he’d soiled himself, the wetness spreading to Mydei’s pants, the smell of spilled precum carrying its own blend of tantalizing pheromones.
Want. Want. The thoughts are so loud Mydei can hear them. He’s unsure whether they’re Phainon’s or his own, his hands lost in the Deliverer’s hair and tugging at it like puppet strings so the kiss never breaks.
Phainon keeps on thrusting against him with that beautiful frown of his, like he knows he shouldn’t yet he’s already close to completion with just so little friction, and Mydeimos wonders how long he’s been struggling with his rut before he finally surrendered and came to find him. How many moons he spent looking for a suitable partner to quench the thirst, or if he fucked inside his lube-slick fist instead or pathetically humped against a pillow, and if he moaned his name while doing so.
Mydei always could tell. When Phainon’s rut looms close his smiles turn into cutting edges, and he doesn’t retreat right away when they’re sparring, once he’s won, hesitating instead over whether he could take it one step further, drawing more blood just for show. He only snaps out of it when Mydei calls him out, as if woken up from a dream. “Deliverer,” when Phainon’s eyes drift to places he shouldn’t be looking at, not so openly at least, and Phainon would blink and remove himself, his hungry tongue sliding over suddenly dry lips. “Sorry. I got distracted.”
Mydei ponders what’s going through the heat boiling inside Phainon’s mind, eager to pry it open and see the corrupted cravings he hides in full view, so he can balance which parts are lusting for someone that will both resist him and take him at his rawest, his ugliest, (his prettiest) and which parts are hungry for Mydei only. Shifting his knee to deprive the other Alpha of the friction he so desperately chase after, Mydeimos tilts his head, teasing:
“Couldn’t find yourself a nice Omega?”
“No,” the reply is immediate, and with it comes two hands seared into his thighs, keeping them open, thumbs tracing the muscly creases within as Phainon resumes thrusting his cock into Mydei’s knee. “Not strong enough.”
The admission has him chuckle.
So the soft-hearted, charming and beloved Deliverer needs someone who can handle all he can dish out. It’s unsurprising, but it makes him laugh all the same: to know that Phainon, who always so dutifully plays the part of the people’s hero, is reduced to his most base, barbaric instincts when his rut comes. That he can do nothing but growl and whimper and knot into nothing because anyone who will go through these large, rough hands of his will come out a little bruised and broken—but not Mydei.
Mydeimos the Undying. Mydeimos, the god of Strife. Mydeimos, with his body having already been beaten and battered by Phainon a million times and always mending itself right away.
Their eyes meet when their hips do, Phainon slotting himself between his legs and rubbing directly against Mydei’s erection this time, dragging quiet ahs out of him as he grinds in a sluggish pace, each movement both bliss and torture. “Mydei,” he whispers, his voice a faltering requiem, his eyes rippling lakes.
“You should have come to me sooner,” he offers, knowing full-well why Phainon didn’t. It’s the bane that comes with the pride of being an Alpha; the one that has them grow self-sacrificial in ways they frustrate each other with, that very same desire to protect and to shoulder everyone’s pain—but then they’re stuck with their own, too, so used to extend a helping hand they don’t remember the last time one was held out their way.
Phainon pauses, gaze coming back into focus. Voice stilled. “You’d have let me,” he hesitates, “do this?” He grinds his hips once more, as if unsure Mydeimos understands what he’s truly implying here, and Mydei chuckles through a heated breath.
“Deliverer. When do I ever refuse you?”
Phainon’s flush deepens, feverish and bleary, his eyes voracious blurs. His head dips to smell Mydei’s scent gland, breathing out with a lot more relief than socially acceptable for an Alpha to pleasure himself over the resisting pheromones of another Alpha. Mydeimos shifts against him, Phainon’s nose nuzzling against his weakness openly and his too-sharp teeth mouthing at it making his instincts buzz like static. “Not here,” he commands. Phainon halts, and his parted lips morph into a sneaky grin.
“I thought you never refused me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scowls, but already Phainon is busying himself over the sharp lines of his collarbone, leaving dotted circles onto exposed skin.
Skimming lower, his mouth follows Mydei’s curves, hovering past his throat to go to his chest, tongue licking around an unclothed nipple. Mydei bucks against him, tugging harshly at whatever hair he can grasp—Phainon holds his wrist in place and takes an infuriating amount of time playing with the pink flesh under his tongue, making it wet and messy; lips too slow to be anything but a torturous tease, building an uncomfortable itch in Mydei’s chest he can’t rid of by himself.
He bites his lower lip to stop himself from asking for more, remembering too easily the feeling of Phainon’s large, warm hands over his pecs when he grounds him down and forces him into submission, whenever the spars get too long and brutish, and Mydei’s thundering heart could be ripped out so easily, only one thin layer of skin away from Phainon’s palm-
The tantalizing licks and kisses turn into full-on sucking, loud, debauched noises making his head spin. He can’t help but push his chest into Phainon’s mouth, his other, uncared for nipple craving for the same horribly sweet touch, and he grabs onto Phainon to stop his own hands from slipping past the red cloth and relieve himself of the ache; his Alpha pride, or perhaps it’s simply Mydeimos’, forcing him to resist the pleasure.
“No milk,” the other Alpha croons, his voice a dazed whisper. “Too bad you’re not an Omega.”
“Watch your mouth,” Mydei warns. Phainon only chuckles, mind already fully lost to the heat, reduced to a hungry ball of instincts and wants and needs, and his lips travel lower, tracing a wet line between Mydei’s abs and stopping to swirl where his navel is burrowed before it trails further south, to Mydeimos’ reddened and aching cock.
This time Mydei helps get rid of his garments, his hands only disturbed by Phainon kissing the blunt of his nails and biting the bumps of his knuckles as he’s finally getting rid of his belt and unzipping his pants, letting his cock spring free. Phainon chuckles at the sight, eyes widening, wetting his lips. “Pretty,” he comments, and it should be infuriating yet his eyes are gorged with not only hunger but devotion, and Mydei’s retort dies in his throat with a small hitch as its only funeral.
Phainon buries his nose against the base, taking a sharp inhale—and Mydei realizes, his face darkening a shameful shade of crimson, that his pheromones are strong there too. Phainon sniffs again as he lets his mouth agape, tongue poking out as if bore some scent organ like an animal-
“Deliverer,” he urges, both embarrassed and aroused. “Enough- Get to it.”
Ignoring him, Phainon rubs against his cock with the bridge of his nose and pointedly disregarding the way Mydei shifts his hips in an attempt to nudge his pretty parted lips closer to his shaft, only humming in satisfaction now that he’s on the receiving end of Mydeimos’ urges.
“Deliverer.”
“Say please,” he says, deciding it’s now his turn to play this game. Mydeimos is far from amused.
“You wish,” he retorts, and his hand surges to grab a fistful of hair and he maneuvers Phainon onto his dick, wincing when sharp teeth graze against the sensitive, flushed skin of his throbbing head—and despite the pain he instantly melts inside Phainon’s mouth. “Fuck-” he moans, unprepared for the waves of pleasure flooding in, “Don’t bite-Don’t bite.”
Phainon hums around his length, the sound reverberating through his whole being, from his cock to his stomach to his chest, and Mydei’s grip loosens into Phainon’s scalp.
His mouth is so good it makes Mydei’s eyes flutter, his thighs tense, his dick grow even harder as it’s licked wet and sloppy, Phainon’s hands stopping him from thrusting his hips, his eyes fixated on Mydei’s glazed ones. His pheromones shift to something more enticing, luring him to fully relax in his hands and let Phainon take control.
Mydei lets his head fall back, his stomach building and rising with intensity, and he looks at Phainon who’s so stupidly gorgeous, forehead addled by droplets of sweat and eyes foggy, and he thinks he’d like to fuck his mouth stupid and full of his seed, breed his throat with his pups-
“Sit up,” Phainon breathes out, halfway to a command Mydei is too gone to notice or to get offended by. He obeys, rising to his knees over Phainon’s lap, and the other Alpha caresses his back and presses a kiss to his belly before taking him in between his lips again.
“Ah-” Mydei’s hands find Phainon’s shoulders, holding himself upright so they’re at the proper height for his hips to line up with the Phainon’s face, “-Fuck-”
It’s delicious wet warmth but more than anything it’s watching the man everybody worships channeling that adoration toward him, and him only, the noises Phainon’s mouth make having nothing to envy to a prayer, and they’re all he can hear: the dizzying, stuttering breaths Phainon lets out when he pulls back, the suckling noises when he twirls his tongue around Mydei’s shaft, the throaty moans when he mouths at his slit-
The hand that was idle on his back journeys lower, joined by its twin. Phainon grabs a handful of ass and pushes Mydei deeper in his throat, making the Alpha moan out unintelligible strings of curses. “Close,” Mydei manages, altering between squeezing Phainon’s shoulders in warning and leaving soft peppered touches along his jaw the Deliverer nuzzles into.
Phainon’s pheromones shift to a tempting invitation. Let go, it whispers, the veiled meaning underneath being Submit. And Mydei is just about to, head empty if not for the feel of Phainon against him, below him, around him, surrounding him with his scent and his desire and his devotion-
Two fingers probe at his entrance. Mydei’s eyes blink open.
“Deliverer.”
His own scent, which had turned sickeningly sweet without his notice, grows sour. Phainon ignores the prohibition and persists in his attempt to finger him open. Mydei pushes the flat of his palm against Phainon’s forehead and tears one of his wrists away, but the Alpha presses on, pushing in deeper with a growl. The licking turns into a threatening bite that has Mydei wince, and Phainon’s pheromones clash against his, ordering him to remain still.
He bares his teeth and jabs the softer part of Phainon’s throat with his knee. Phainon coughs but doesn’t let go, only squeezing Mydei’s ass harsher in punishment, having lost his sanity to the apex of his rut and seeing in Mydei nothing but a hole he wants to fuck into.
Mydeimos won’t have it.
He shifts his hold, using his body as leverage so Phainon’s is trapped beneath his, now his turn to lie on his back. The Deliverer blinks at him with wide, starry blue eyes and a confused frown, relaxing his grip just enough for Mydei’s instincts to stop screeching. “Why?” he cocks his head, and then he smiles, like he does when he thinks Mydeimos is being too reckless still he’ll gracefully condone it. “Bad Omega.”
The screech turns into a deafening roar in Mydei’s veins, his pride splattered blood red. His fist connects to Phainon’s jaw in a clean, satisfying hit that fails to shatter the voracious blue glint aimed at him. There’s a crack of bones, a splash of red blossoming in Phainon’s nose. They’re not in a bedroom anymore but in a battlefield, and Phainon retaliates, growling as he aims for a fistful of bright hair.
Not being hit properly only spurs Mydeimos on even more, reading it as an admission Phainon sees him as weaker, more vulnerable. His fury bypasses the burning pain in his scalp and he slaps a hand over Phainon’s mouth, forcing it shut. The Alpha bites into the skin between his thumb and his index and pushes against him, hands tugging and ripping at his skin and at his clothes, tearing into the remaining fabric with a snuffed snarl against his palm.
Mydeimos throws another nasty punch that hits Phainon square in the stomach, and he revels with vicious glee in he sound of his rival choking into his hand and of his severed breaths, Phainon’s fangs marred carmine as if he had been doused with the abandoned glass of pomegranate juice.
His thighs squeeze around Phainon’s, the bump of the other Alpha’s cock poking against his naked ass, and he has been hard for so long it must be more painful than anything else by now, still Mydei leans forward, his bloodied hand wrapping around Phainon’s neck, thumb finding the sun embedded here and obscuring it.
“Have you forgotten your place?”
Phainon stills, regaining his senses just enough to realize what he’s said. The word Omega keeps ringing through Mydei’s head and he wants to spit it out, to crunch it between his teeth just like he wants to rip into Phainon. Phainon doesn’t apologize, only staying idle and reeling his pheromones back as much as his body allows him to, letting Mydei squeeze harshly as if he were a newborn pup.
It takes him a while to remember, again, that it’s Phainon in front of him. That he hasn’t called him that in hopes of demeaning him, that he’s not looking down on Mydeimos for the parts of him he’s always been judged for, when deemed unfit of his Alpha status. The moment passes but the urge to prove Phainon wrong doesn’t. “What if I fucked you instead,” Mydei growls, fangs bared.
Phainon pushes back then, his pheromones returning, brimming with need. “No,” he chokes. “Want-”
“Having demands now, do we?” He taunts but he grinds on Phainon’s lap, looking at the thick vein bulging in the crook of his throat every time he does, at the flush appearing at the corner of his ears.
It’s frighteningly easy to understand him, even when his words are all slurred and nonsensical, hit by the heatwave of his own rut. Perhaps it’s because they’re both Alphas, or because they’ve been side by side for long enough for Mydei to understand Phainon’s feelings as if they were his own. The urge to mark him, to smear his semen all over his chest until he’s wrapped in his scent and his come and stops resisting; the desire to dominate and tear and own, and he knows Phainon must feel it tenfold.
His own ruts are strange, distant moments he’s not sure even pass, and he’s come to accept that his dysfunctioning body was in part due to his immortality, unsure whether he was dead or alive, whether he was feeling good or hurting, the feelings too alike once they’ve been experienced once too many times. All that remained from his many deaths were the raw, pure and jaded feelings. The need to fight, to survive, to prove himself. The hatred he tried burying down within, and the empty void that called his name in the lonely nights; the same one suffocating him when he walks the river of souls upstream and has to leave his loved ones behind.
Stuck between a deafening quiet and a silent scream, and he wonders if all he fears comes through his seeping pheromones, if Phainon picks up the intricate layers of frustration nestled in the scent of rust and blood the same way Mydei notices the self-doubt fueling his hasty hunger.
It’s intoxicating, being so close yet so hateful, willing to own and to destroy and to brand their mark onto the other until there’s no need to hide behind petty challenges and hollowed words anymore. “Let me fuck you,” Phainon says. Intoxicating, that despite his pride as a prince and as a god, Mydeimos would let him.
“I’m no Omega.”
“I know. I know.” I’m sorry, he doesn’t, cannot say, both their natures as dominants too primal and ferocious to admit such a thing, not tonight at least, when one of them will have to either submit or to break.
Mydei smirks, still feeling spiteful, closing his hand on Phainon’s throat and, with his other, taking his own neglected cock and pumping it slowly, chasing after his denied orgasm. Their noses are close enough to bump and their mouths close enough to kiss, and Phainon’s gaze wavers between Mydei’s golden eyes and his shaft, coated in so much precum it looks like slick. He tries rutting against Mydei’s ass, hips locked under his, hands idle in a show of asking for forgiveness, and Mydei scolds him for it. “You need taming.”
Phainon swallows hard, not completely opposed to the idea. His eyes flicker again to Mydei’s lips, to his cock, the tip dribbling pale fluid all over the black fabric of his shirt, and Mydei gasps against his mouth, close—and Phainon gives in.
“Please,” he asks, brows knitted together, a thin vein appearing on his forehead. “Please.”
Mydeimos’s laugh contains a little too much affection for how rough they’re being. He pulls back, resting his full weight on Phainon’s lap. “Lube. On the drawer next to you.”
Phainon blinks rapidly. He says, without missing a single beat:
“I could do that for you,” his tongue already poking between sharp teeth. Mydei shivers just from imagining himself presenting, vulnerable and on his knees for Phainon to pry him open with his mouth. His cock throbs but his voice miraculously remains firm.
“Hand me the bottle before I change my mind.”
Something like defiance clashes against his will for a brief second, but Phainon swallows and reaches for what he’s been told, pulling out a bottle of unused lube he keeps in his hand a little too long before deciding to uncap it. He gives it over, and Mydei pours a generous amount onto his hands, trying his best to ignore the cold feeling of the liquid pooling, turning his fingers clammy.
Phainon looks at him all the while. Mydei only turns away when he reaches for his own entrance and eases it open. It’s uncomfortable, slickless, no matter how many bottles he’s willing to empty; his body screams that it’s wrong, that he’s a terrible Alpha for being so weak and his raging instincts snuff out any pleasure that could have made the experience any more bearable. He grits his teeth and closes his eye as he works himself loose with the first finger. He’s too tight, too tense, nauseous-
Phainon surges close to him, bringing their faces together again. He jerks Mydei lazily, and Mydei simply huffs, unable to trust himself to speak. His mind is a whirlwind of Don’t, No, Bad hammering against his temples—and Phainon kisses them softly, then his neck, then his chest, lips gentle as they play with his nipples again. “Hurry,” he whines. Mydei chuckles.
“Are you a puppy or-,” the hand stroking him quickens, cutting his sentence on a quiet moan. “-a mutt-”
Phainon bites the bouncier part of his chest, teeth sinking in too easily; the pleasure and the pain sharp enough to not let room for anything else, and the thoughts turn mercifully quiet at last, delegated to background noise. “Woof,” he pants into Mydei’s tit, one of his fingers joining Mydei’s and guiding it inside his own body.
“Deliverer-”
“Come on. Come on,” he urges. “Hurry. Let me help.” Contradictory, the Alpha and the Deliverer clashing and they’re both in Mydei’s bed, dying to fuck him until he’s full of their cock. Mydei trembles, hand halting, and Phainon’s pheromones, sensing him falter, shift to a soothing fragrance.
“It won’t work on me,” Mydei chokes, but still he relaxes into Phainon’s hold. “I’m not a-”
“I know.” And this time it doesn’t sound like a Please or I’m sorry but Thank you, and something horribly large gets stuck in Mydei’s trachea and his eyes prickle, and he wishes he could swallow it down with everything else: his stupidly loud instincts and his ego- “Let me at least have this.”
Stupid instincts indeed. As much as Mydei’s order him to fight back, Phainon’s recognize him as his partner and want to help as much as he can, to ease him into taking his- his offspring-
Mydei swallows. He lets Phainon comfort him like he’s property, humming sweet nothings against his chest as he scissors him open, encouraging him to do the same with his own lube-slicked fingers—and one of Phainon’s digits reaches for a spot that cannot—that should not exist, that makes Mydei jolt and his cock spills all over Phainon’s stomach, some of it reaching his face.
Phainon smiles, swiping the semen with his thumb and making a show out of licking it before he pries Mydei’s mouth open with the very same finger. “There you go,” he praises, pressing on Mydei’s tongue. “There you go.”
Shut up, he wants to say but he’s kept quiet by Phainon’s thumb poking deep inside his mouth and reaching all the way to his molars. “I’ll have to make use this hole next time,” Phainon laughs, airy, his gaze so tender Mydei doesn’t want to see it anymore, his stuffed mouth full of things he wants to say but when Phainon pulls back all he can mutter is “You can’t knot me,” but it’s so quiet he can’t hear it, over the sound of being subdued.
Phainon smiles and hums without acknowledging his demand.
“Deliverer.”
The fingers working him open pull away, grabbing his hand and bringing it to Phainon’s mouth, who kisses them clean of lube as if he doesn’t care that it’s all slimy and tastes disgusting, and he’s finally unzipping his own pants, letting his dick spring free. It’s huge and red and swollen, the knot at the base the size of a fist. “You can’t knot me,” Mydei says again, voice thick in his throat.
“I heard you the first time,” Phainon murmurs. He lines himself up with Mydeimos’ entrance and presses a kiss to his jaw, pushing him on his back as he does.
He pushes in slow at first, a burn that feels like it’s splitting Mydei in half. He winces, all his muscles tense, so Phainon halts, moving up to nuzzle against his cheek and leaving another kiss here. And he thrusts in, burying himself inside with a grunt as Mydei groans, body shaking and eyes seeing stars.
“It hurts,” he hisses out, angry, scorching tears swelling in his eyes, hands tight around Phainon’s forearms with his nails breaking skin in retaliation, scratching long red lines like prison bars.
“But you like a bit of pain, don’t you?” Phainon whispers into his ear. “The mighty prince of Kremnos enjoys being bullied a little. And who will do that if not me, mh?”
There’s an obvious statement in his tone, a promise that as much as he needs Mydeimos, Mydeimos, too, needs him, and Mydei tries and fails not to think of all the ruts he’s spent in agony with his dynamics unfulfilled and his body screaming that it was not enough.
“I’ll-” he starts but never finishes, Kill you split open on his own fangs, because even if he were the biggest and strongest Alpha Amphoreus had ever birthed, he would never be able to do such a thing. So maybe Phainon is right, and there truly can be no one else for Mydeimos but him, as if that by itself wasn’t terrifying enough—as if it wasn’t obvious enough, when he can smell Phainon all the way from the Kremnoan barracks and he can read his thoughts as if they were only one more of the many books in his library he’s gone through a hundred times over.
Phainon smiles knowingly, his head tilted down and his nose bleeding from the earlier punch, and it drips patches of red onto Mydei’s torso like blooming lilies. Phainon licks and bites and kisses, shutting the pheromones away before they can spread anywhere else but against him, his own scent overtaking Mydei’s bedroom, rewriting ownership. Making Mydei feel sick and twisting a solid knot in his stomach like a promise he’ll do it all over again if he needs to, if Mydei dares forget who he belongs to, and Phainon thrusts again, rough and hard and stopping just short of the swelling of his cock, and he says: “Give in.”
He gropes Mydei’s chest viciously, making him moan loud and open, and he twists his nipples with harsh tugs, turning his back into an arch. “Come on.”
“Fuck you”, Mydei spits.
Phainon smiles and grabs Mydei’s cock instead, thrusting it into his hand. Mydei throws his head back, a whine leaving his mouth and a ball of fire flaring up in his stomach. His control is slipping, his pheromones going haywire, shooting up everywhere yet easily suffocated by Phainon’s just like his thoughts. His moans turn obscene the more they’re coaxed out of him and Phainon smirks, infuriating, even as his arms and shoulders are decorated by fiery crimson lines.
“That’s it,” he coos. “Good boy.”
“Who is-”
Phainon flips him onto his stomach too easily, whispering into the sensitive parts of his ear. “Good Alpha.”
Mydei shudders, and his instinct is dreadfully quiet, leaving nothing for him to hear but Phainon’s soothing voice and his breathy gasps as he unravels everything Mydei has never shown anyone. With his back exposed he feels horribly vulnerable, and he calls “Deliverer” deliriously, as if asking for help. Phainon’s fangs poke at the weakness weaved beneath skin and vertebrae, shaking Mydei’s whole body again, his hands fisting the bedsheets, his mouth torn on a high-pitched cry, his cock throbbing. “Deliverer.”
A plea and a warning. Phainon smiles into his back, his mouth drawing a line upward, following the rocky stone path of his spine up to the even more sensitive spot at his nape, where his scent gland rests. Pressing a kiss here, his teeth scrape against where skin could so easily tear and rebrand Mydei’s whole being. “Phainon,” Mydei finally lets out, tears crashing into the pillow beneath, voice breaking. Phainon ignores him, nuzzling and kissing into the patch of skin relentlessly, too soft to be anything but destructive. “Fuck,” he moans, “fuck-”
“What’s wrong?” Phainon says, pretending to be innocent—and his voice shifts to a tease: “Scared I’ll breed you?” And Mydei shivers, not because of the fear Phainon might but because his cock keeps leaking at the thought, Kephale above- “Pretty wife,” Phainon babbles, “so pretty.”
It’s the rut speaking, and nothing else, Mydei lies to himself, biting on his lower lip to not give in to the words, the pleasure, and the pheromones trying to break him into wholly surrendering. It’s the rut; and it might be spreading to him as well because there’s no way sex—mating, his liquified brain supplies— can feel this good; no way resisting and being rewarded when he’s vanquished by kisses and soft yet bruising touches can be so satisfying-
“If you keep clenching around me like this, I’ll have to pump you full of kids,” Phainon comments like he’s seriously considering it.
“Are you an idiot,” he chokes, yet the words hit him right in the stomach, at the same place Phainon’s cock keeps on pounding. His legs tremble, and so do his arms, and his mind grows fuzzy with white noise. Phainon’s thrusts grow harsher, the blend of pain and pleasure forcing Mydei into losing his grip.
“You came again,” Phainon comments, giving his spent dick a harsh squeeze, and Mydei is so dazed he hadn’t noticed. “Good, perfect Alpha.” Mydei whines, for once happy the sound is loud and playing on all his vocal cords so it stops him from asking for a kiss. “You want my knot so bad, don’t you?”
“No,” his tears keep on spilling, his body shaking non-stop as he’s being fucked into. “Keep that thing-” Phainon’s cock punishes his harsh language with a sharp thrust right against his prostate and he thinks he’s coming again, but he’s not sure- it all feels good, his body is on fire, he shouldn’t, he’s being bred, he hates it, he wants it so bad- “keep it out of me-”
Phainon smiles against his shoulder blades and slides the barest press of his swelling knot into his ass and Mydei spills again, cock twitching, head spinning. “You like it,” Phainon says, one hand flat against Mydei’s stomach as he slowly pushes more of his cock inside, hot, hot hot, and he rubs it through Mydei’s belly and Mydei moans and keens like he’s the one rutting.
“Don’t move” he hears himself beg. “Phainon, don’t you dare move-”
Phainon gives a shallow thrust that rips an ungodly sound out of him, something loud and abashed like pleading for mercy. He’s fat and throbbing inside, and he stills only when he’s buried to the hilt, knot impossibly large and reshaping Mydei’s insides, nuzzling into Mydei’s nape all the while, Phainon’s scent so close it suffocates his; assaulting him with endless fields of sunflowers and blue skies he can only find in Phainon’s eyes.
Mydei’s remaining pheromones morph into something else; not only a submission but an invitation for Phainon to see it through and take him completely. He groans and bites at his own lip until it breaks and bleeds, stopping his recoiling ego from pushing back. “So good for me,” Phainon marvels. “Gonna fill you up so well.”
“Then get it over with already,” he chokes.
It hurts again, but the shame flares stronger, and now he doesn’t want to fight but for the will of it to be fucked out of him until he’s thoughtless and unable to realize he’s been dominated anymore. Phainon presses a soft kiss against his scent gland, a fake-bite just to have him shiver and whine, and he swells and spills inside of him. Spurts of burning hot come brand him, Phainon’s cock pulsing against his walls, and then it stills and it pulses again, warmer, squirting thick come over and over and it feels like it’ll never stop—and he can only stay on his knees and take it as he’s defiled, scent washed by Phainon’s spill as if he didn’t exist—as if he wasn’t Mydeimos, Prince of Castrum Kremnos and God of Strife, but Phainon’s Mydeimos.
His body finally gives in with a sob, liquid trickling down out of his filled hole and onto his quivering thighs. Phainon holds him down, still nestled within him as if Mydei was a mold made for him and him only, pressing gentle kisses against the corner of his runny eyes and trying to lure his mouth out of the pillow it screamed moans into, attempting to grant him that one kiss he so desperately wanted as reward.
Mydei surrenders, his exhausted lips meeting Phainon’s, and it doesn’t all feel like he’s lost.
He wakes up in the middle of the night to find his body thoroughly cleaned, if not for the few hand-shaped bruises that stubbornly linger, having bypassed his immortality for the span of a few system-hours. At his side, Phainon sits on the edge of the bed, and he turns to look at him when he hears Mydei shift, eyes riddled with unfounded guilt.
“Mydeimos-” he starts.
“Deliverer.” He cuts the other Alpha because he already knows what he wants to offer: confessions and pardons Mydei doesn’t want to accept nor to give, and what he says next is not what Phainon wants to hear, Mydei knows—but he also knows in a very near future, there will be more than words piercing through Phainon’s flesh like blades, so he draws the first blood and with it the honors, like a proper Kremnoan would.
“Spare me the pointless worrying. There’s nothing of you I can’t handle.”
He says it like a prophecy, like an evidence. It might as well be. No matter how many broken bones he collects, his body will inevitably mend, and his pride will have no other choice but to follow suit.
They look at each other in silence, Mydei parting the covers to allow Phainon back in, knowing, too, that the other Alpha has not slept ever since Mydei closed his eyes. Fool.
“Spend the night,” he says.
And the others, if Phainon wills; as many and as little as they have until they have to part. Phainon scoots closer, staring at Mydeimos in meaningful silence, and for a while he stays like this, lost in the golden, crimson shade of his irises as if this, too, was one of the bruises he’s made.